


Dish

by yeaka



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Intoxication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:18:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2587937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy thought drinking might make it easier to ask, but it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dish

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Ficlet for mr-barrows-cup-of-tea‘s Thommy request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). This isn’t historically accurate or properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Downton Abbey or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Jimmy’s not drunk enough to think this is a good idea, but he is drunk enough not to bother stopping Thomas. He watches the water reach a boiling point from across the servant’s dining hall and supposes it’s at least better than lighting their cigarettes outside was, and they managed that alright. Even with Thomas’ fingers shaking around the fire, burning the ends here and there. Thomas has a way of getting himself out of trouble, even when there’s no one to blame for it but himself.

He drank too much. They both did, really, but Jimmy’s not showing it as badly; his tolerance is high, and Thomas... lost himself tonight. It doesn’t happen often; he usually tries to be in charge, to be safe, to be able to protect Jimmy from his own foolishness. But tonight they got to talking about things they’ve silently agree to _never talk about_ , and it drove too many refills into Thomas’ glass. 

He manages to pour the boiling water into his teacup without incident, though he still looks unsteady and Jimmy’s on hand, just in case. Not that he’d know what to do for burns. But Thomas has medical training, doesn’t he? He sets the kettle back down, facing the wall, like it isn’t supposed to be—there’re already beads of water clinging to the bottom of the cabinets from the steam it made when it boiled. Mrs. Patmore would have a fit. Thomas touches the base of the cup, swears at the heat, and latches onto the handle instead. The teacup rattles against the little plate under it, and Jimmy’s mind is already deciding who they’ll blame if they break it. 

But Thomas forgets the plate, and with just the cup in hand, he starts walking off, muttering, “Right then. Not here.” Jimmy follows with a brisk nod; he’s not a fan of spending his off hours in the common spaces, anyway. 

Or the boot room. That’s work business. But Thomas chooses it for whatever inane reason—maybe doesn’t think he’ll make it all the way back to his room, and he holds the door open for Jimmy to sweep inside. They’re still in their boots and coats and it feels distinctly _naughty_ , like they’re sneaking around. Even though they’re allowed to be here and they’re allowed to drink. Two grown men. After hours. Thomas closes the door behind them and leans against it for a moment while Jimmy wonders where to pick up. Not where they left off, surely. Down that road it’s all...

“Still do,” Thomas mutters. Jimmy’s stomach clenches and his head feels lighter, even though he should feel disgusted. _Do you still like me? After all this time?_ He’d asked in the pub. Thomas’ eyes scrunch closed like it’s painful to say. “’Course I still do.” He turns so his back is flat against the door, and he starts to slink down it. It’s slow going, graceful even in his drunken stupor. But that’s Thomas Barrow all over. 

Jimmy sits across from him on the floor, feeling vaguely like a child, and clutches the liquor bottle in his hands like Thomas is clutching the teacup. He’s spilled a bit of the tea over the sides of his hands, and all ten fingers wrap around it. If it burns, he isn’t showing it. Jimmy’s blood is racing in his ears, probably partly from all the alcohol and from the way Thomas’ heat seems to radiate towards him. Thomas shakes his head and says, “I _know_ you can’t—” He stops to lick his lips. It draws Jimmy’s eye, just like any movement Thomas makes with his mouth does, be it a cigarette or food or that casual, sensual drag of a pink tongue over red lips. “I know I shouldn’t, but I...” He cuts off with a vague gulp. The drink and the privacy’s taken away all the confidence he has in the daylight, and it tugs at Jimmy’s heart strings. 

Jimmy mumbles, “It’s fine.” Even though it isn’t, not _really_. Thomas is miserable. He said it back there. He’s happier, maybe than he’s ever been, but he’s miserable, too, because he isn’t as happy as he wants. And thinks he can’t ever be. And he said Jimmy’s his saving grace and yet sometimes _torture_ , and Jimmy shuffles closer across the cold floor until his knees are touching Thomas’ boots, and he says louder, “It’s okay.” Thomas looks up at him. Jimmy tries to show with his face that he doesn’t blame Thomas anymore. He isn’t still angry. And he sort of understands...

Thomas breathes, “Thank you, Jimmy.” The way he says Jimmy’s name, even a little slurred like that, always sends a shiver up Jimmy’s spine.

Thomas clutches the teacup tighter. Jimmy only notices because his buzzing ears can hear it shaking. It’s spilled over the sides again, and Thomas lifts it up, not to drink from it but to lick the leak off his fingers. It’s the sort of guttural, unsophisticated behaviour that Thomas would normally scoff at. In a way, Jimmy feels privileged to see Thomas raw and broken down like this, at his most vulnerable. 

In another way, Jimmy knows it’s _him_ that’s made Thomas that way, and his eyes are too focused on the swipe of Thomas’ glistening tongue along his pale skin. He sucks up the tea but still leaves a wet trail in its wake, a thin sheen of spit on one hand. Then he switches to the other side and laps over his gloves, leaving darker stains behind. Jimmy watches every little movement, watches Thomas skim the edge of the teacup, lips latching onto the brim, maybe just making up something to do so he won’t have to keep talking. He runs slowly around the full circle, even though his hands are still trembling and are likely to spill again. Jimmy wants to tell him to _calm down_ ; he’s not going to get fired or go to jail or lose Jimmy again. If anything...

Thomas hisses suddenly, “We shouldn’t talk about this,” and lifts the teacup up like chugging beer. It’s an almost comical sight—the delicate porcelain against Thomas’ aggressive ferocity, his long fingers encasing and almost covering the entire tiny base. Jimmy’s bottle feels cold in his hands—there’s not nearly so much art in the way he drinks. He wonders for the millionth time what the hell Thomas sees in him, because yeah, he’s good looking, but no one’s ever stuck with him and really _loved_ him like Thomas has. When Thomas puts the teacup back down, there’s a small trickle of liquid out the corner of his lips, trailing down his chin. 

Jimmy, staring, gives in and admits he wants to lick it away. He does. He almost throws everything away and leans in to do it, but Thomas is trembling again. It’s probably a good thing he left the plate behind, or it’d be rattling enough to wake the house. Jimmy has a bizarre moment of staring at the cup in Thomas’ hand and seeing wild, drunken metaphors—Thomas is a teacup, beautiful and purposeful and classic, but he could still shatter so easily. Jimmy runs a hand through his hair; he feels foolish and drunker than he thought. 

When Thomas blurts, “I’m sorry,” Jimmy can’t take it anymore. He can’t take Thomas _apologizing_. Not again and not like this. So he forces himself to get to his feet and awkwardly stuffs his bottle into his jacket’s open pocket, ignoring the way it threatens to burst the seams and topple out at any moment. Jimmy bends down to bring Thomas up with him and tries to take the teacup away before Thomas crushes it, but Thomas won’t let go. 

Thomas gets to his feet, mostly because Jimmy is grunting, “C’mon. Let’s get you to bed before the maids wake up.” Thomas nods his head like he would listen to and do anything Jimmy told him. Jimmy nods at the cup first and says, “Finish it,” just in case. So Thomas nods back and turns the teacup around in his hands, like seeing it for the first time. He lifts it up properly, by the handle, and takes a sip, then a gulp, and swallows the rest. No sense spilling on their good jackets on the way up.

Jimmy opens the boot room door and helps usher Thomas out, up to bed and under the sheets, safe off too dreamland, where the world is different and Jimmy’s head is clear and he can be where he desperately wants to—in Thomas’ Barrows damaged hands.


End file.
